


The Best Defence is a Good Self-Defence

by hardboiledbaby



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John finally tracked down the other gang members, only to discover that the gang's leader was not amongst them. Seems he had left a few minutes earlier to collect the stolen gems from the mule.</p>
<p>The recently deceased mule, waiting for its autopsy in the morgue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Defence is a Good Self-Defence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Watsons_Woes 2014 July Writing Prompts Challenge, prompt #3 - I Never Get Your Limits: a character's hidden talent saves the day.

_Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks_

The chant in John's head kept time with his footfalls as he ran. His right hand, bruised and swollen, throbbed in counterpoint.

_Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks_

A quick glance at Sherlock's grim face as they rounded a corner told him that his friend was thinking the same thing he was: they'd been inexcusably slow to realise that the innocent bystander killed in the jewelry heist was anything but innocent, had in fact been part of the group that had made off with thousands of pounds' worth of loose, untraceable diamonds. 

They'd finally tracked down and subdued four other gang members, only to discover that the gang's leader was not amongst them. Seems he had left a few minutes earlier to collect the stolen gems from his mule. Apparently, he had a condom full of diamonds in his gut.

The recently deceased mule, who was now waiting for his autopsy in the morgue. 

_Oh shit, the morgue. Molly Hooper._

Luckily, Saint Bart's was only several blocks away… but they were bloody long blocks. Leaving the gang trussed up for the Yarders, John and Sherlock took off. Sherlock, for once, actually phoned Lestrade rather than texting him, so he wouldn't have to slow down. John called Molly's number and cursed when she didn't pick up. 

_Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks_

They hit the doors of the service entrance at a dead run, ignoring the startled shouts of 'Oi!' and 'Hey!' as they plowed past hospital staffers in the narrow corridor. Someone would no doubt call for Security, but by the time the guards showed up, they would be too late.

_Oh God, don't let us be too late, either._

They burst into the morgue and came to a skidding, panting halt. 

Molly was stood over the autopsy table, her face as pale as the dead body laid out in front of her. A stocky, round-faced man with short black hair and the nastiest grin John had ever seen had his arm around her waist. The shiny blade of a dissecting knife was pressed to Molly's throat.

John had his gun with him, tucked into the waistband of his jeans under his jumper, but it may as well have been at Baker Street for all the good it was going to do him. The pain in his hand from the earlier altercation was climbing its way up the scale and he didn't think he could've wrapped it around his SIG even if he tried. At least two of his fingers had been dislocated, or worse. 

"It's all over," Sherlock said. "You'll never get out of here with the diamonds, obviously. The police are on their way, you can't escape. You may as well give up this idiotic, ill-conceived plan at once." His tone was scathing, and John wanted to kick him.

The tosser lost his grin, and John felt his stomach turn. He had the crazy eyes, this one. "I've got 'er, ain't I?" He tightened his grip on Molly, making her squeak. "As long as I got 'er, the coppers won't do nothin'." 

"That's not how it works," John snapped out, drawing the man's eyes to him. He took a small step to his right. "Taking a hostage, you're just making things harder on yourself. The rest of your mates have already been caught. Drop the knife."

Sherlock, picking up on John's intent to divide the man's focus, shifted to his left, widening the gap between them. 

"No! Stop moving!" the man demanded. He pointed at Sherlock with the knife. "You stay where you—"

As soon as the blade left her throat, Molly twisted and did… something, so fast, all John saw was a blur of white lab coat and brown ponytail. Suddenly, the man was on the floor, curled into a fetal position and _howling_. The knife had fallen out of his reach, but Sherlock kicked it away, just to be sure.

John stared at Molly for a moment, then wordlessly knelt next to the now-sobbing man for a look. "A broken nose, possible dislocated thumb and/or broken wrist," he announced, and rose to his feet. "Oh, and a direct hit to the balls." He grinned. "Good shot, Molly."

"Indeed," murmured Sherlock. He looked suitably impressed and smiled at her in genuine approval. 

Under both their gazes, Molly blushed and grew more flustered than when she was being held at knife point. "I took a course, a self-defence course. It, well.…" She twisted her lethal-weapon hands together nervously. "Mum thought it would be a good idea, when I moved out on my own."

"Thank God for mothers," John said fervently. 

"A form of martial arts, wasn't it?" Sherlock observed. "I didn't recognise the style. What is it called?"

"Oh, it's rather obscure, I'm afraid. Have you ever heard of baritsu?"

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies if the Saint Bart's in my fic has little to no resemblance to the real thing, and please pardon the rampant Americanisms.


End file.
